


you stole all my words and made them yours

by BlackSlytherin



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Harry falls in love with anonymous notes, Literature, Love Letters, M/M, Poetry, Strangers to Lovers, Writer Louis Tomlinson, anonymous letters, i still suck at tags, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackSlytherin/pseuds/BlackSlytherin
Summary: Louis writes. Not for a purpose, he just has words in his head that he puts on paper. He writes love letters where he pours his heart until it combusts, saying how he aches and burns out of love. They're never for anyone, though, because Louis isn't in love, and he has never been, but somehow he can write it as if he feels it. He can't keep them, because they feel like lies, so he puts them inside books and drops them anywhere.That should be the end of the story, really, but Harry finds a book one day, and there's a note in it, and the words are too beautiful for him to think of anything else but whoever wrote them.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

_« I don’t know how to stop loving you. In my defense, I don’t think I’m trying. I don’t think I would ever want to stop the way my heart bursts whenever I think of you. The way every melody in the world aligns to spell your name in every song my ears catch. The way I hear you in every sound, every noise, the way I smell you in every rose and see you in every painting, as if the universe decided to make things more beautiful by putting a little bit of you in every part of it. »_

Harry looks at the words with something close to awe.

He looks around, unsure, but the very few people out there don’t seem to pay the slightest attention to him. He recognizes some of them. Mrs. Fitz is taking her cats out for a walk again, which he always thought to be useless because cats don’t need to take walks, they’re happy enough to sit all day and do nothing except for the few glares they’d give you if you have the misfortune to get too close for their liking. Still, Harry loves cats, but Mrs. Fitz’s cats don’t seem to love anyone. He recognizes Jenkins too, walking back from the kiosque at the corner of the street, his trench coat firmly closed as if it would be enough to hide the fact that he’s still in his pyjamas at past two in the afternoon and that he didn’t go to work today, nor did he the day before that, because his company fired him a couple weeks ago and he still hasn’t found another job. Harry doesn’t mean to know all of this, but Margaret – Maggie, he reminds himself – lives for gossip, and she gives Harry a free cookie whenever he doesn’t pretend he has to rush and sits down to listen to what she says, which is often because Harry is a sucker for cookies and Maggie knows how to make them just the way he likes them.

He looks at the words again, and wonders vaguely if she would know who they belong to. He thinks of asking her – the cafe is just down the street from the park and he might also get a cookie out of her, but as soon as he forms the thought it’s eclipsed by another one, one that strangely ressembles possessiveness. It’s stupid, in a way, because they’re just words and they’re not even for him, but whenever he reads them – and he has done it a lot since he found them tucked in a book ten minutes ago – they make his heart flutter just with the idea that someone has so much love inside them. It’s intimate, in a way, that Harry can read those words that were never meant for anyone else, that he can see, ever so briefly, inside a stranger’s heart. He’s not sure he wants someone else to see it too, as if the more eyes lay on it, the more tainted it will get. There is beauty in secrets, he thinks, and this one is by far the most beautiful one. So he tucks the piece of paper back between the pages and closes the book. He walks away, and when he meets Mrs. Fitz he can swear that one of her cat kept eyeing the book longer than what would be reasonable for a cat to look at any random object. He refrains from opening it nine times an hour but always gives up at the tenth, until the words are engraved in his memory. There is beauty in secrets, but none of his secrets will ever match the beauty of this one.

.

He reads the book. It’s a collection of poems and some of them feel familiar. He knows the author, if only by name. Allen Ginsberg. The book, _« Howl and Other Poems »_ , feels heavy when he opens it, as if it’s holding three souls where it should only have one. With every line he reads, he imagines Ginsberg sitting in his room, dimly lit like every writer is in his imagination, pouring out the weight of his heart – his soul. He imagines, briefly, whoever the book belonged to, and tries to figure out why they put the note in there, why that book and not another, why Ginsberg and not Rimbaud. And then he imagines a third person, his third person, writing on a piece of paper words so simple yet so striking in their simplicity. He goes back to one of the poems, maybe his new favourite, and underlines the last verse.

_We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision._

He isn’t sure that he understands all of it yet. But he will.

.

Of course, the whole thing loses its novelty. After a couple weeks he doesn’t have the urge to read the note everytime he passes by his bookshelves. He knows it by heart anyway. After a few months he forgets it’s there and he’s surprised when he opens the book and the piece of paper falls off. It still makes him warm whenever he stumbles upon it, and he knows Ginsberg’s book like the back of his hand. Still, he mostly forgets about it, so the second time it happens, his mind is far enough from the first that he’s still surprised.

He’s at the park again, much like the first time. This time, however, Mrs. Fitz and her cats are home and Jenkins is at work – finally. Maggie is not working today so he grabbed his coffee and went to sit on the grass instead. It’s a good day, he thinks. He’s reading a book for class – Goethe’s _Faust_ , and it’s captivating enough that he forgets about the coffee after half an hour. It’s sitting there right next to him, dangerously balanced between his backpack and the tree he’s laying against. It’s quiet, like any cup of coffee, and immobile, like any inanimated object would be, so it’s no surprise that it’s forgotten. It will probably stay that way too, because Harry has a shit memory and it’s not the first cup he forgets – he knows it’s a shitty habit and he tries his best to not forget but his memory is shittier. Today, however, it decided that it wouldn’t be forgotten anymore. Or maybe the tree decided so. Maybe the parc was tired of seeing objects left to rot behind (the cup is biodegradable, but it’s still not an excuse). In the end, it doesn’t matter which one sparked the idea, whether it was the tree or the cup. Slowly, and surprisingly enough for a spring day, a leaf falls of. It catches Harry’s sight right as it falls directly in the cup, too light to cause any kind of disturbance other than the faint ripples on the surface and the fact that it’s not drinkable anymore – not that Harry was planning on drinking it anyway.

He thinks, in that order, « Fuck, my coffee, » and then, « A leaf ? »

« A _leaf_ ? » he thinks again as he looks up, because he, too, remembers that it’s only spring, and the whole thing becomes a mystery he thinks he might solve by looking up.

In reality, it had nothing to do with the coffee’s nor the tree’s will. Nothing to do with a will at all. Nature is strong, sure, but there are stronger things in the worlds, and even the strongest leaf would break if there was something even stronger pulling at it for hours and days and weeks. The funny thing is, Harry does solve the mystery by looking up. He knows trees, or, well, he knows the basis, and he knows trees don’t usually grow books on them, and that is definitely a book sitting awkwardly between the branches.

He gets up and holds out his hand, but it’s still a little too tall, even for him. He jumps a little, brushes past it with his fingertips. He jumps again, and still nothing, except for the few curious looks he gets. He doesn’t notice them, though, too caught up in his mission. Maybe if he wasn’t so focused, he’d remember the ruler in his backpack or the book he was reading or the backpack itself that could all help him retrieve the object far more easily. But he’s too focused, and he jumps again, propulses himself in the air and this time, finally, he hits the book, and it falls on the grass.

It’s Alice In Wonderland, and he lets out a laugh when he reads the title. It’s ironic in the best of ways, he thinks as he remembers how the story starts with Alice falling asleep under a tree. He already knows that he’s bringing the book home with him, because, surely, if someone put it in a tree and left it there, it’s not really stealing, is it ? Whatever hesitation this last question leaves in his mind is instantly wiped out when a piece of paper falls off from between the pages.

He picks it up with slightly trembling hands and opens it. He recognizes the handwriting, but the words are different.

_« I dreamed of you again, but I don’t remember waking up. I don’t think I have. Maybe I have been dreaming of you forever, maybe you only exist in there. Or maybe, somehow, you came into my life and made it so beautiful that all my dreams pale in comparison. Maybe I don’t know when I’m dreaming anymore because when you’re with me reality just fades away and it’s like there is only us. Like there is only you. Somewhere between the first time I laid eyes on you and this exact moment, the world stopped existing and there was only you. Or maybe there had always been only you, and you made up the whole world. A whole world made of you. I think I like the idea. »_

He reads them, again and again, and much like the first time he feels like he’s drowning in a sea of beautiful.

.

He studies the book carefully this time around, because surely there has to be something about these for them to be appearing randomly the way they did. Of course, he finds nothing of interest. It’s used, just like the first one. There’s a stain on one of the pages where it must have gotten wet and had the ink make a little mess, and the pages are yellowed enough that whoever it belongs to must have had it for a few years at least. He reads it through, even though he knows the story. Then he reads the note. And reads the book again. And then he fumbles around until he finds the first book and puts it next to it. They don’t have anything in common. He check the edition, the publishing company, the collection, the year, but nothing matches.

There is something, though, he realises, and his eyes light up with excitement as he shuffles between the pages. Something, not between the books, but between them and the notes. Alice’s story was a dream, this whole distorted world where reality and imagination swirled together, swirled around Alice. The story fit the note, or the note fit the story, or any way, really, but they both fit.

And Howl. It’s not about the story, because there isn’t one story to focus on, it’s about the writer. About Allen Ginsberg. Because the note feels like a thousand poems on its own, because Ginsberg had been desperately in love. It feels like a reach, yes, but still. Somehow he’s convinced that he’s right. He must be.

He doesn’t put the first book back on the shelf. He keeps it on his nightstand next to Alice in Wonderland. He reads the notes every night, and he wishes he would know who wrote it. He wishes he could know how it feels to love so hard, to burn so bright for one person, to be so devoted to someone to the points that words like these just fly out of your heart. He wonders if it’s love that makes poets out of people. He wouldn’t know.

.

It’s a big park, really. One lap around it and Harry is already exhausted, the rare times where he convinces himself to jog. It’s a miracle, in a way, that it’s still standing in the middle of everything. He’d heard rumours before, obviously, of people who were looking to buy it, build huge malls and accessorily turn a perfectly quiet neighbourhood into another product of modernity. Luckily, they never do, and the park stands, big and green and free.

The point is, it’s a huge park. So it makes very little sense when Harry finds yet another book. One is an accident. Two might be a coincidence. Three, though, he doesn’t know what to make of it.

_« There is a world out there of thoughts you inspired and poems written about you. A world in your name fixed in time so it will never die. I world I can’t move, nor would I ever want to. It stands there in the middle of everything, and it’s all I can see. Everything you are that isn’t you. Everything anyone has ever seen in you, thought of you, felt for you. It is its own world, for the world we are in is not enough to hold it, to hold you and everything you represent. »_

This one is in a french book. _Le Petit Prince_. It’s short, but his knowledge of French is inexistant and he has to look up the English translation. He falls in love with the story, and then with the note. If the one who wrote all these notes is the prince, he wonders who his rose is. And why they’re giving up words of love Harry would have fought battles for.

.

He becomes wary. At first he thinks someone is following him and planting them there on purpose for him to see, and he turns slightly paranoid. Suddenly Mrs. Fitz’s cats look more threatening than they ever did before and when they pass him he’s certain they’re whispering secrets to each other that he can’t understand. He would be sitting somewhere and his mind somewhere else entirely, and then he’d remember the books and sits straight in case there are hidden cameras filming – in case this is all some big, elaborate joke and he’s the subject of it. There are never any cameras, though, and he has to admit, although reluctantly, that the evil look in the cats’ eyes has always been there. No one is following him either, and by the fourth book he realises that they are not meant for him.

He’s not at the park, this time. He’s just gotten out from the tube and he’s walking back home. He passes the coffee shop with a wave to Margaret through the glass and he convinces himself that there is no point in making his walk longer by passing all the way through the park ; his morning classes were long and endless, he’s exhausted, he wore the ill-fitting vans by error this morning and every step is more painful than the previous one. So he doesn’t need to go by the park.

He goes by the park.

He doesn’t get in, although he definitely wants to. He does peek in once, and twice, and by the third time he just stops looking away altogether. He’s not sure what he expects to see – maybe a lone book sitting brightly on one of the benches that he would somehow manage to see all the way from where he is.

He does see a book.

It’s in a little girl’s hands.

He knows that not every book that exists has to be one of those. Hell, not every book in the park has to be one of those. He knows, because he takes books with him there all the time, and plenty of people do, just as plenty of people forget about them too, and children are people too, and it’s completely logical that this book would actually belong to the little girl.

But she’s not reading it. She’s opening it and then closing it and eyeing the pages curiously like she doesn’t understand them – she probably doesn’t. Her hands are too small to hold it as they should and her little daint fingers clash with the brown-ish hard cover and the ‘E.B.Browning’ engraved in gold letters. He knows this book, or at least he knows what’s written in it, because he went through a poetry phase in high school and then a Browning phase he’s still not completely out of and he knows Sonnet 43 better than he knows himself and as much as it’s beautifully simple it’s not a children’s book and maybe he’s overthinking it, maybe he’s not thinking it enough, but now he’s walking to the little girl and kneeling to talk to her.

« Hi, » he says, his voice as soft as possible, but it’s still not enough for the little girl not to step back when she sees him.

« I’m sorry, » he says, « I didn’t want to scare you, » he apologizes. « I’m Harry, » he introduces himself, but she doesn’t say anything back, just keeps looking at him with big, curious eyes.

« I thought you could help me, » he tries when he realises she’s probably not going to say a word. « I lost a very important book in the park and I’m looking for it. »

Her eyes grow somehow bigger and she clutches the book tighter in her little hands.

« Book ? » she manages to say, and her eyes scan through his face as if she’s trying to figure out if he’s lying.

« Yes, it’s brown and it has poems inside. It’s very important for me, » he says again.

« Why ? »

« Because there is a secret letter hidden between the pages, and no one can read it. »

She gasps loudly and there is something that resembles excitement in her eyes when she speaks next.

« What does it say ? »

« I don’t know, » he admits. « That’s why I need to find it back. »

She doesn’t say anything for a couple seconds, her eyes rushing between Harry and the book that he’s still pretending he can’t see. She seems to make up her mind, though, and she holds it up in his face for him to see.

« Is it this one ? » she asks excitedly.

« It is ! » he gasps, and his own excitement is not entirely feigned. « Where did you find it ? »

« There ! » she points vaguely to the park, and Harry chuckles. He could have guessed that much himself.

« Can I have it back, please ? » he asks, and she nods easily before handing it to him.

He takes it earnestly and opens it, scanning through the pages until he finds it.

_« I remember the first time I found you in my heart. I don’t know how long you were there before I did. I don’t know how you got there. I don’t even remember looking for you there. One day I just felt you there, tucked inside, warming up every corner just by existing, and I never stopped feeling you ever since. I don’t think I ever will. I will carry you in my heart forever, long after you are gone, long after we are both gone. We may not last in the universe, but my love for you will be forever there amongst the stars. »_

The note is tucked between the pages of Sonnet 43, and his heart fills up once more.

« What does it say ? » the little girl whispers, as if she’s afraid to disturb something important.

He looks up at her, unsure of what to say. « It’s a secret, » he finally lets out, and her expression turns serious. « But a very beautiful one, » he adds, although he isn’t sure if she would understand it.

She stays by his side as he reads the note again and again, and at one point she puts her little hand on his shoulder like she’s comforting him. Maybe she’s sensing that there is something in the piece of paper that she can’t understand. It’s surprisingly nice, though, because even if she doesn’t understand, she gets it.

« What’s your name ? » he asks her after a moment, folding the note and putting it back between the pages.

« Doris, » she says and smiles proudly. He can’t help but smile as well.

« How old are you, Doris ? I’m twenty-two. »

« I’m this many ! » she exclaims and holds four proud fingers.

« And you’re all alone here ? » he asks, because he hasn’t seen any panicked mother rushing by her side yet and it’s starting to worry him.

« No ! Achoo is here ! » she says, and she takes Harry’s hand to point at someone.

Harry hasn’t noticed him until now, but right where his own finger is pointing is a boy – a man ? – looking at them with curious but wary eyes. He’s not standing very far off, his back against one of the trees. There’s another kid, a little boy, playing in a sandbox right next to him, and he looks strikingly like Doris. Harry realises he has probably been watching them since the beginning, and he feels a little self-conscious right then, so he gets up and walks towards him, Doris following closely.

« Hi, » he says.

« Hi. »

He’s eyeing him up and down and his gaze is intimidating enough that Harry has to look away. He’s not sure what to say next, whether he should introduce himself, or maybe apologize, or maybe he shouldn’t say anything at all, maybe he made it awkward by walking to him in the first place.

« I helped Harry find his book ! » Doris exclaims, saving the day.

« Did you, now ? » the other man says, and Harry watches with fascination as he raises his eyebrow high enough for it to disappear under his hair.

« Yeah, I… I was looking for my book, and little Doris here found it for me, » he tries to explain lamely. The other man merely looks at him with something like disbelief, and his eyes linger just long enough on the said book for Harry to feel awkward.

« _It has secrets_ , » Doris whisper-shouts very seriously, and her eyes grow wide again.

« Secrets ? »

It takes a moment for Harry to realise that he’s talking to him.

« Not really, it’s more like, notes ? » he tries, hoping that it would be enough of an explanation. He doesn’t really feel like telling a stranger about his not-really-sane quest of love notes from another stranger.

« You like Browning ? » the man asks. The question sounds like a test, and Harry, for one, is glad enough that he does like Browning.

« She’s amazing, » he says, and he means it. « I’ve been obsessed with her since high school. I think I cried the first time I heard _Bianca among the Nightingales_. »

It seems like enough of an answer for the other man, because his shoulders relax a little, and so do Harry’s.

« I’m glad you found your book, then, » he says, and his eyes are glowing just enough for Harry to lose himself in them for a second too long.

« Me too, » he ends up saying, and he offers the stranger a smile that he returns, if not fully, at least partially. It’s enough for Harry.

« I’d better get going, » he says when he feels like the conversation has come to an end. « It was nice meeting you, » he tells the stranger, and then turns to Doris, « And it was awesome meeting you, » he says, and the little girl’s smile is enough to brighten his own.

.

It’s a strange collection of books, he thinks whenever he looks at them. He tries to make up a character in his mind based on them, but they’re all over the place and he can’t find a link. Alice in Wonderland and the Little Prince are both children’s books, yes, but then there is Browning’s Portuguese and Ginsberg’s Howl that are at the antipodes of the first ones. Hell, they’re even at the antipodes of each other, and while they are both poetry books, they couldn’t be more different in style if they tried. So in the end, Harry can’t make up the stranger in his mind, and they stay merely a shadow in his fantasies, surrounded by poems and children’s tales.

He hasn’t had the last book for a week that he finds a fifth one, and it takes him by surprise. It’s like the book was waiting for him, he thinks as he picks it up from the floor. It’s just sitting there in the grass, his for the taking, and he can’t believe his luck. He looks around him for a moment, but he wouldn’t know what he’s looking for if it was standing right next to him, and he is quick to draw back his attention to the book.

_« Your dimples whisper secrets to your lips that the angels are jealous of. »_

And Harry is confused because that’s not how the letters usually go. They’re always longer, and they’re never… quite like this. He doesn’t know how to explain it. They’re usually about the writer’s heart more than who it is meant for. But he’s also excited, because this is the first time that there is anything that even hints at the person who owns the writer’s heart. He tucks this one with more care, and for a couple days he smiles a little brighter and touches his cheeks a little more often, as if he’s checking whether his dimples have something to say to his lips. Of course, they don’t, but it’s nice to imagine.

* * *

_« I don’t know how to stop loving you. In my defense, I don’t think I’m trying. I don’t think I would ever want to stop the way my heart bursts whenever I think of you. The way every melody in the world aligns to spell your name in every song my ears catch. The way I hear you in every sound, every noise, the way I smell you in every rose and see you in every painting, as if the universe decided to make things more beautiful by putting a little bit of you in every part of it. »_

Louis looks at the words with something like anger. He puts down his pen and closes his eyes, trying to make sense of the turmoil in his head. But even that only makes him angrier, because no matter how agitated his head gets, no matter how loud is the noise inside his own mind, his heart stays silent. He feels like a liar, and he feels like a fraud, and he hates the honeyed words that pour down from his pen even more because he knows he doesn’t mean any of them. He doesn’t know how to explain it, he doesn’t know why all he can write is love letters when he doesn’t even know what love feels like. It’s sickening in its irony, and it’s maddening in its dryness. The words feel dry to him because he knows that under the foolish beauty there is a desert of emotion that reflects his own heart. And he hates it.

He puts the paper away and lights up the cigarette that he keeps tucked behind his ear. It’s cold, he thinks bitterly as he drags on it. Then again, it fits the general mood, doesn’t it ?

.

_« I dreamed of you again, but I don’t remember waking up. I don’t think I have. Maybe I have been dreaming of you forever, maybe you only exist in there. Or maybe, somehow, you came into my life and made it so beautiful that all my dreams pale in comparison. Maybe I don’t know when I’m dreaming anymore because when you’re with me reality just fades away and it’s like there is only us. Like there is only you. Somewhere between the first time I laid eyes on you and this exact moment, the world stopped existing and there was only you. Or maybe there had always been only you, and you made up the whole world. A whole world made of you. I think I like the idea. »_

He doesn’t know who that ‘you’ he writes to is. He tries to imagine them but they only come as a shadow of smoke. He doesn’t dream of them. He doesn’t dream at all. His life is a painful display of shades of grey and reality, and he longs for the extatic colours that exist only in dreams. The world he is in is not even his. It’s bland and cold and impersonal, and he wonders if love is the secret that would make it warmer.

He puts the two pieces of paper side to side and stares. He has trouble even believing that he would have written this, that he could have written this. He wants to throw it away but he can’t, and he doesn’t really know why either. He holds it between his fingers, and it should be really easy to just tear it to piece and throw it away, but he can’t find the will to. So he folds it. Slowly, carefully, and then he pulls one of the books that’s been sitting on his desk and he slides it inside. He thinks that might be enough for it to stop haunting his mind. Of course, he is wrong.

He doesn’t remember how he first gets the idea. He just knows that the notes still dance around his thoughts all the time and he is painfully aware of their presence, and he wants them to go but he can’t destroy them, because they represent something he aches for, something he can picture so clearly but can never reach. They are precious, as much as he doesn’t want them to be, and so he does the next best thing. He gives them up. It’s still a little painful, but he remembers how his mum used to say that you should always give out what you love, and not what you simply have no use for. He doesn’t love his words, but he cares for them, and it’s just as good, so he takes the first book and puts it in his backpack. It’s not really thought out, and when he drops it on a bench and walks away, he doesn’t overthink it. He doesn’t pick the bench for any particular reason, he hasn’t ever been to this park before, there’s no secret or mystery to it. He saw it, he found it quiet, he liked the funny shape of one of the trees and so he got in. He put the book down and he didn’t wait to see if someone would pick it up or if it would go unnoticed. He doesn’t want to. He prefers not to know, because the minute he gives his words away they are not his anymore, and any second he spends watching after that feels an awful lot like prying. So he goes home, doesn’t look back, and when he throws the second book on a tree weeks later, he doesn’t look either. The books hold secrets that are not his anymore, and he can respect that.

.

_« There is a world out there of thoughts you inspired and poems written about you. A world in your name fixed in time so it will never die. I world I can’t move, nor would I ever want to. It stands there in the middle of everything, and it’s all I can see. Everything you are that isn’t you. Everything anyone has ever seen in you, thought of you, felt for you. It is its own world, for the world we are in is not enough to hold it, to hold you and everything you represent. »_

He’s had that copy of the _Little Prince_ for years now. He doesn’t remember where he got it from, but he hardly remembers where he got any of his books either. It’s very old, and some of the stains on it date from before Louis got his hands on it. He’s always liked the story, and it has proven to be a fan favourite with his little brother and sisters over the years, so part of him doesn’t want to give it away. In the end, it’s exactly for that reason that he does.

.

_« I remember the first time I found you in my heart. I don’t know how long you were there before I did. I don’t know how you got there. I don’t even remember looking for you there. One day I just felt you there, tucked inside, warming up every corner just by existing, and I never stopped feeling you ever since. I don’t think I ever will. I will carry you in my heart forever, long after you are gone, long after we are both gone. We may not last in the universe, but my love for you will be forever there amongst the stars. »_

He’s not alone at the park, this time. His eldest sister came to visit, and she brought the little twins, and they have a talent for making you feel like shit if you ever dare to deny them attention. So Louis gives them all the attention they want, because the little brats are sweet and their hearts are bigger than their little bodies and sometimes when they look at him he thinks he sees his mum.

He should have expected, though, that things wouldn’t go as planned. He thought dropping the book on the grass and leaving it there would be enough, but obviously he hadn’t planned on Ernest’s knack for digging everywhere where he shouldn’t. It’s alright, though, because he doesn’t give it more than a brief curious glance before he dismisses it and continues playing, unbothered. It’s alright. And then, Doris finds it.

She doesn’t give up as easily as her brother. Louis watches her without a word as she sits on the grass and opens it. She tries to decipher it, but of course she can’t, and Louis is convinced that would be enough to make her lose all interest in it, but of course she proves him wrong. She takes the book and runs with it, finding uses for it that only exist in little kids’ brains. It goes from her head to her tummy, it’s an umbrella and then a skateboard and then a pet animal sitting oh her shoulder. It’s a square belly and a third leg and something Louis doesn’t understand, but it becomes a book again when he sees someone talking to her. He’s on his feet in a second and ready to intervene, but something makes him freeze right when it should have made him run. And then he realizes the man next to Doris is harmless. He had no interest in his little sister. He just wanted the book. Louis’ thoughts are so loud that he can’t think anymore, so he watches in silence as the man goes for the note like he knew it would be there. He watches as his eyes scan the words so many times Louis’ chest tightens. He watches even as the man looks up and finds him staring, and he keeps watching until the same man stands before him with an awkward smile and dimples too deep and tries to apologize for something Louis stopped paying attention to.

.

It gets worse. It’s kind of awful, because he can’t write anymore. Somehow, the knowledge that someone reads his letters makes it impossible to write more, because his words have no dept, they’re all lies, and he’s petrified at the idea that that person – _Harry_ – could read them and see beyond the cheap poetry, see him and see how fake and empty he is. He can’t just stop either, because now he knows someone is waiting for his books, looking for them, and it’s that same fear to disappoint that holds him back that also urges him to move. So he sits and looks at his sheet of paper for what feels like forever, trying to think of words that won’t come out. The minutes turn into hours and the hours turn into an eternity of doubt and void. In the end, he can only write a few words, but they’re more honest than anything he’s even written.

_« Your dimples whisper secrets to your lips that the angels are jealous of. »_

He keeps it on him all the time until he sees him again. For the first time, he drops the book and waits, and if he feels like prying when Harry finds it and picks it up, it’s worth the slight warmth in his chest when he sees the sparkle in his eyes.

.

He should stop, he knows that. It’s one thing to drop notes like a tortured writer for the world to keep as a legacy, but it’s another to purposefully write them for and about the person he knows will always pick them up. It’s strange, and awkward, and he doesn’t know that guy, and yet he sits on his desk and closes his eyes and tries to remember his face and his hair and the way his eyes brighten under the sun and every beautiful thing about this beautiful boy and, quite frankly, he doesn’t remember ever obsessing about something the way he’s obsessing over him.

It’s strange. It’s strange that he never runs out of words the same way the boy never runs out of beauty to write about. It’s strange that it only took him ten days to notice a pattern and catch him whenever he’s at the park. It’s strange that he cares so much.

But he never felt before, he never cared before, he never bothered before, and now the softness in Harry’s eyes when he reads the notes makes him feel and care and bother, and sometimes he wants to come up to him and tell him that the words are for him, that he’s something to be admired. He doesn’t, of course, because it is stupid. Because finding someone beautiful is not a valid enough reason for his behaviour, and he isn’t sure that he would be able to explain the way his brain decides to work – for the sole reason that he doesn’t know himself. He just needs to keep writing, and Harry makes him write, and that, surely, should be enough.

« Hi, » a deep voice pulls him out of his rambling thoughts, and his heart panics slightly when he looks up to find Harry standing in front of him.

« Hello, » he says, and the casualness of his tone is enough to hide his rushing thoughts.

« Sorry, I didn’t want to bother, I just recognized you and thought I would say hi, » the other boy says, and Louis slowly pieces together his surroundings. He’s at the park. He’s sitting on the grass. He has a book in his hand. He’s reading, or he was, until he started thinking too much and forgot about the world long enough for Harry to sneak up on him.

« Hi, » he manages to say when he remembers to speak. He feels like an idiot.

« I’ll just, » Harry trails, visibly uncomfortable, and he’s already turning around to leave and Louis feels like an idiot and a dick.

« No, I’m sorry, » he rushes, and it’s enough to capt Harry’s attention again. « I was just… Not in this world, I guess, » he says, and he holds his book up as an excuse.

Harry accepts it with a smile, and Louis sees his dimples again.

« What are you reading ? » he asks, and he sits besides Louis, completely unaware of the beauty that radiates from every move he makes. Louis envies him.

« Poetry, » he says, and he doesn’t know if he’s referring to the book or the boy beside him. Maybe both. « Jack Kerouak, » he adds.

« Can I ? » Harry asks, brows furrowed, and he motions to the book expectantly. Louis hands it to him easily.

He already knows the reason behind Harry’s confusion. He can imagine his brain rushing, trying to remember where he’d heard the name before, why it’s so familiar. He watches him as he reads the page Louis had kept open, and he can almost see him absorb the beauty of the poems. He closes the book for a second and rereads the author’s name. Louis knows he plans to look him up later. It’s endearing.

« I love it, » Harry says, eyes wide.

« Me too, » Louis replies earnestly. « I’ve always envied him. »

« Why ? »

« He’s spontaneous. You can feel it in his prose. It’s always ‘’ _First thought, best thought._ ’’ If you take Allen Ginsberg, for example, his work is truly amazing, and incredible on every point, but Kerouak has this rawness to him. There’s no editing, no filter, he doesn’t think it through. And more often than not, it leads to genius. »

He forgets himself for a moment, and when he realises it he’s a little embarrassed, but Harry looks at him like he’s the most interesting person in the world. It’s ironic, really.

« I don’t know your name, » Harry says after a moment, his eyes never looking away, and the sudden change of subject takes Louis aback. 

« Louis. It’s Louis. »

« Alright, » he says with a smile. « I’m Harry. »

He bites back the ‘’I know’’. He bites back the smile too.

« Show me your favourite quote of his, Louis, » Harry says easily.

Louis takes the time to think. There are many that come to mind. And then too many, and then none.

« I don’t think I can, » he says, and the confusion in Harry’s face is distracting. « I’m not sure I could reduce him to a quote, a sentence, even a poem or a whole book. There’s always something elsewhere that would make you regret ever making a choice. »

« Do you always say things like this ? » Harry asks, and Louis doesn’t know what to reply to that.

« What do you mean ? »

« I don’t know, » Harry says, and Louis expects him to say something else. For a moment, it’s like Harry expects himself to say something else, but he seems to back away. « Sorry. I’m being weird. »

« You’re not, » Louis says, because he’s not. Harry doesn’t seem convinced. « Here, » he takes the book back, « Read this, » he says, and he fumbles around the pages until he finds what he’s looking for. It’s Kerouak’s Letter to Myself.

« So therefore, » Harry reads aloud, a slight smile on his lips, peeking over Louis’ shoulder, « I dedicate myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, endless absorbtion and hunger because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being. »

Louis doesn’t remember at what point he closes his eyes, but he’s reluctant to open them and leave a world that is filled with nothing but Harry’s voice and poetry. He has to, nevertheless.

« I like this one, » the other boy says.

 _I like this one_ , Louis thinks. He doesn’t say it, of course.

« Me too, » is what he says. 

« Did he keep his word ? » Harry asks.

« Oh, yes. His madness was what started it all. » « The Beat Generation, » he adds to answer Harry’s curious look. He enjoys the way his eyes light up with recognition before continuing. « And even after that, after setting the foundation to one of the most revolutionary movements in poetry, he kept writing, not to prove anything to anyone, but simply because he was dedicated to it, to his art and madness, and to his freedom. I don’t think he’s ever valued anything more than freedom. » He wants to stop then, but Harry looks at him in a way that says ‘’keep talking’’, so he does just that. « He said ‘’I felt free and therefore I was free’’, and to me these are words to live by. It’s not about the life you build in your head and those big plans you’re conditioned to have, of a house and a car and a steady job and a perfect family of four. It’s about the freedom to be you, whatever that means, unapologetically, to make mistakes and say ‘’fuck it’’ and make more just because you can. »

The silence that follows his words is hard to decipher. Harry is staring at him in a way that makes him feel completely naked.

« Do you make mistakes ? »

His words catch him by surprise.

He keeps thinking of them long after they say goodbye.

* * *

_« They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder ; I shall like to see the world through your eyes. »_

It takes him a minute.

He wonders if it’s foolish to fall in love with someone through words.

He decides he doesn’t care.

.

_« There is something quite bewitching about the way your curls trap the sunshine to reflect it through your eyes. »_

« Cookie ? »

Louis looks up at him with undisguised surprise, and Harry smiles warmly.

« Cookie ? » he repeats, and hands him a little paper bag. Maggie gave it to him moments ago, still warm and fresh out of the oven. It’s mouth-watering and, without a doubt, delicious, but he gives it to him without hesitation. Louis seems reluctant, but he takes it nonetheless.

He doesn’t wait for an invitation and sits on the grass by his side, peeking to take a closer look at the book Louis is holding – he’s always holding one, and Harry is always excited to see which one. He’s far from discreet, though, because soon after Louis rolls his eyes and hands him the book.

« I know this one ! » he exclaims, maybe too happily. « I will love you if I see you never again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday, » he quotes from memory. Louis reciprocates his smile easily, only brighter.

« My mum used to read the first book to me before bed, until I got old enough to read the rest of them by myself, » he says, and Harry stores the precious piece of information in his memory.

« You know what my favourite part was ? » he asks excitedly.

« The letters, » Louis replies almost instantly, and he seems as surprised of his answer as Harry is.

The thing is, he’s right. Harry still has a journal where he used to write them down, every little love letter Lemony Snicket would slip at the beginning of his books, copied neatly on stark white paper.

« How did you know ? » he asks, confused.

« I figured you out, » Louis says casually, but his eyes are bright with something Harry doesn’t recognize. « And they’re my favourite part too. »

He accepts the explanation.

.

_« Your face lights up and suddenly the world is too bright to look at. »_

« You forgot your coffee cup, » Louis says as they get up from the grass.

« Shit, » Harry says, and he kneels to get it, but Louis beats him to it.

« It’s alright, I got it, » he says and picks it up. He always does. « Just don’t forget it next time, » he adds. Harry always does. He still smiles, though, and if it’s not as apologetic as it should be, Louis doesn’t say a word.

.

_« I would die tomorrow if it meant you would smile to me today. »_

« Your bag is open, » Louis says absentmindedly.

« Shit, » Harry mutters, and he tries to reach and close the zip, but of course he can’t, and only manages to make a fool of himself.

« Here, give me your back, I’ll do it, » Louis sighs, but Harry has known him for a while now, and he learned to know which sighs meant what, and he’s pretty sure this one is only feigned annoyance at worst. Fond at best.

« I didn’t know you liked french poetry, » Louis says, much to Harry’s confusion. It takes him a second to remember the Paul Verlaine book he found earlier that is now sitting in his backpack.

« Oh, yeah, » he says, because he doesn’t know how else he would explain carrying a book he never read, in a language he never spoke.

« You speak French ? »

« Not really. » His words come out strangled and his cheeks burn from embarrassment.

« I see, » is all Louis says. His tone is amused, and he pretends to ignore how red Harry is, but Harry can feel him watching.

.

_« Cheeks red as blood, smile bright as light, I wonder what it would take to earn a place in your heart. »_

It’s another poetry book. _The Flowers of Evil_ , by Baudelaire. He knows the writer, and he knows he’s French. The book is translated in English, though, and as curious as it is, Harry is grateful enough that he’s able to understand this one.

.

It takes an eternity to put all the pieces together. Weeks and then months. By the time he figures it out, he’s had to buy new shelves for all the books he’s collected and he knows more about Ginsberg and Kerouac and Rimbaud and Dostoïevski than he would ever have had in a lifetime. Every note is copied on a journal and he reads them back to back to himself, and with every note that adds up he can picture the person they are meant to a little clearer.

_« I can never look you too long in the eyes out of fear of getting lost in a forest so bright and live I would never want to come back. »_

_« Your eyes speak of love and spring and beauty and freedom. »_

_« I try hard but I can never define the color of your eyes, for they picture every shade of the dark forest and the light meadow, somehow combined together, both a winter night and a summer day. »_

It’s the final piece of the puzzle, but he keeps it in his sleeve longer than he should, like he’s afraid to put it down and find out it doesn’t fit. In reality, he’s more afraid that it would fit, that somehow, the curls and dimples and red cheeks and bright green eyes are meant to describe him. It would open a whole world of possibilities he doesn’t think he can envision, and just the idea of it is overwhelming.

The piece fits, though.

It fits perfectly.

* * *

He watches, the way he did countless times before, as Harry picks up the book expectantly, opening it directly on the hidden note. He opens it, reads it, and as always his eyes light up and Louis knows his heart is beating as loud as his own. He turns his back to him, and Louis feels a flood of disappointment at not being able to see his face anymore, but he drowns it with the thought that he’ll come to him soon enough, that they’ll talk and laugh and read poetry and watch the sun set and fall asleep and drool over each other’s shoulders. But when Harry gets up, the book is still there. Harry walks away, and the book is still there.

His brain screams ‘’WRONG’’ in every language of the world as he walks to where Harry was standing less than a minute ago. There’s an alarm blaring inside his head as he picks up the book and opens it, and the note that falls from it is different from the one he put in there. He opens it with trembling hands and it’s empty where his words should have been, except that big, single, dooming word in the middle.

_« Louis. »_

Just one word. Louis. Louis, Louis, Louis.

« Louis, » a painfully familiar voice says behind him, and when he turns, Harry is facing him and Louis forgets how to breathe.

« I’m glad it’s you, » is all Harry says, and he says it so softly, almost a whisper, that Louis could have just imagined it. It would still make more sense, and yet the way he’s looking at him with his big, bright, hopeful eyes, only reassesses what Louis is too afraid to have heard wrong. He doesn’t know which part of him gives up first, whether it’s his mind that blows up with the thoughts rushing everywhere, or his heart that doesn’t know yet how to handle being so alive.

In the end, he doesn’t know who moves first, because for the longest of times he can’t do anything but stare, and Harry only stares back with his too big, too bright, too live eyes.

In the end, they kiss.

The moment their lips brush against each other, he is ready. Ready for the fireworks, ready for the world to disappear around them, ready for centuries of poems to finally make sense.

It doesn’t go like that.

The world doesn’t disappear, it becomes clearer than it’s ever been. He’s suddenly aware of every noise, every movement around them, every brush of the wind, every little branch that cracks, every child that laughs and every bird that sings. They kiss, and the world makes sense for the first time ever. The ill-fitting, dull, strange world becomes Harry, Harry, Harry, and it’s more beautiful than ever. There are no fireworks or special effects or little stars dancing around them, because all the stars are in Harry’s eyes, in this special boy’s eyes, and when they part there are so many words that fight inside Louis’ brain, so many feelings that fight inside his heart, and he can’t pick his favourite, he can’t reduce Harry to a word or a feeling, because he knows there will always be something that would make him regret ever making a choice, because Harry is infinite, because no words could ever give him justice, because he makes Louis’ heart come to life in a way that he never thought would be possible. So he doesn’t say anything, he holds him tighter, like a silent promise that he will cherish him until the end of times.

He does just that.

.

Harry wants to understand, and Louis explains. They go through everything together and Louis has to force himself to stay focused and not lose himself in contemplation of this boy he is finally allowed to adore. They laugh and love and joke and kiss and they cry, too. Harry straddles his lap and kisses every inch of his face, and with every brush of his lips he whispers sweets to Louis’ ears. It hits Louis so hard that his chest hurts afterwards, the realisation that he is adored too, that he is cherished too, that he is cared for by the most beautiful boy to ever exist. It’s overwhelming, and he feels drunk on a feeling he’s known about for too long and feels for the first time. He doesn’t need to say the words, not yet, but Harry knows, and he knows too. He puts a little bit of them in everything he does, though, and sometimes Harry doesn’t even notice, but other times he stops whatever he is doing to look at Louis in a way that says « _I love you, too_ », and these moments never cease to make Louis’ heart jump.

In the end, it’s everything and nothing like anything he’s ever read. All the prose in the world doesn’t come close to the beauty that this boy, _his_ boy, radiates, so he makes new ones, he writes new words and poems that he whispers in his ear when they’re laying down, and Harry complies always, listening silently, eyes closed, and if it weren’t for the way his cheeks blush prettily whenever Louis starts speaking, he might as well think him asleep.

Harry rests his head on Louis’ lap and listens to him pour his heart out. Louis tells him about the way his hair swishes gently with every word he speaks, like thousands of earth fairies dancing around his face, the color of dark coffee beans with streaks of chestnut and golden hues. He tells him about his rose bud colored lips that curl with the promise of sweetness and whisper words of forever at night. He tells him about the light in his eyes that makes the rest of the world just a little bit darker. He tells him about his laugh, the way it comes from within and radiates through his whole being, the way his eyes fill with joy and his body shakes as he gasps for air and looks at Louis as if there was nothing in the world that would make him happier. He tells him about his heart, quiet and soft and big and bold. He tells him about everything that makes him beautiful and Harry listens, always, accepts everything Louis gives him.

And Louis writes. It’s like Harry has opened a gate in his soul and broke all the chains that were refraining him before. He writes better than he ever did, and Harry sits by his side for hours just to watch him, brings him a new cup of coffee when the first one gets cold without him asking for anything, rubs his shoulders when he feels tense and closes his laptop gently and pulls him to bed when he looks like he’s going to fall asleep at any moment.

.

This time, when Harry finds a new book sitting on his desk, he knows it’s for him. He opens it, but there is no note. Instead, he finds the words printed in black ink on the first page.

_« Harry –_

_You stole all my words and made them yours. »_


	2. I loved you first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with even more poetry and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I felt like writing lately so this is a little epilogue of sorts, a very short little insight on their relationship with a lot of fluff and a lot of poetry because why not. Hope you'll enjoy it!

Harry doesn’t notice it at first, not really. When Louis looks away, he thinks he is just shy. When he changes the subject, he puts it on the account of modesty. That’s the problem when you love someone, when they become everything in your eyes, when they look like they hung the stars and the moon itself ; it’s hard to believe they can’t see themselves in the same way.

Louis’ heart is like a fountain, pouring words of love to Harry that he’d always take and cherish. Long declarations on lazy Sunday evenings, whispers of eternity on never-ending nights as they lay under the stars and dream of forever, stolen kisses over the kitchen counter and slight brushes of their fingers as they walk past each other from one room to the other.

But whenever Harry says something, whenever he calls him beautiful, whenever he wonders at the colour of his eyes or tells him how pretty he is, Louis shuts down. It’s almost indistinguishable, that little veil that covers the shine in his eyes the moment Harry does so much as looks at him with too earnest eyes or too blatant love.

Because Louis loves Harry, but he doesn’t love himself. Because Louis doesn’t think he deserves to be loved.

And that has to change.

« Hey, » he says softly, putting a hand on Louis’ shoulder.

Louis doesn’t hear him coming before he speaks, too absorbed in whatever he is writing, but as soon as he hears his voice, he looks up with that same sparkle in his eyes that melts Harry’s heart every single time without fail.

« Hey, » he smiles, and takes Harry’s hand in his before laying a kiss on top of it.

« You’ve been here for hours, love, » he whispers, his chest warm with the feeling of Louis’ lips on his skin.

« I know, » Louis smiles apologetically. « Have I been neglecting you? »

« Only a little, » Harry lies, because he knows he already has Louis’ entire attention. Louis’ entire everything. « Come here, » he says, pulling on his hand until he gets up. « You need fresh air that hasn’t been compressed in a tiny room for four hours. »

« Yes sir, » Louis laughs, but he heartily complies.

« I hadn’t realised it was so late, » he says, moments later, as he looks through the kitchen’s open window.

« Mhm, » Harry says. « Want something to eat? »

« Not hungry, » Louis shrugs, even under Harry’s reproachful stare.

« You haven’t eaten all day. »

« Not hungry, » he repeats, purposefully avoiding Harry’s eyes.

« Okay, » he gives in, if only to allow Louis’ defenses to come down. « André called, by the way. »

« Did he? »

« Scheduled you a signing for next week. »

« Where? »

« _Parfumerie._ It’s a nice bookshop, I’ve heard, not too far. It’s named after- »

« The Shop Around The Corner, » Louis gleams.

« Convenient, huh ? » Harry smiles.

Louis doesn’t say a thing for a while, just looking at Harry, and the longer he stares, the softer his eyes get. Harry stares back with as much love in his eyes as his heart can bear.

« Come here, you, » Louis finally says, opening his arms for Harry to fit in. « You seem tired, » he whispers against his ear, stroking his hair in a way that always makes Harry’s troubles disappear.

« Just a little. Had a long day, » he explains, allowing himself to bask in Louis’ warmth.

« Let me take care of you, then, » he replies softly.

He holds him in his arms for a little longer, none of them quite ready to let go of the other, until they feel tingles in their legs from standing up for too long. They consider the bedroom, but it feels too far a distance in that instant to let go, and they fall down on the couch instead, Harry propping his head on Louis’ lap like a second nature.

He closes his eyes as Louis’ fingers find their way back in his hair, playing with his curls and humming a tune Harry has heard before.

« Read me something, » he asks, already feeling the exhaustion from the day kicking in.

« Don’t have a book, you’d have to move for me to get one, darling. »

« Tell me something from memory, then, » he replies, not willing to leave the comfort of Louis’ lap, but not ready to give up either.

« Anything? »

« Anything. »

« Alright, » Louis says, and thinks for a moment. When he speaks next, it is with words Harry hasn’t heard before, but welcomes eagerly.

« _I_ _loved you first,_ » he begins, and Harry closes his eyes. _« But afterwards your love, outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song, as drowned the friendly cooings of my dove. Which owes the other most? My love was long, and yours one moment seemed to wax more strong; I loved and guessed at you, you construed me, and loved me for what might or might not be._ »

He stops then, as if reconsidering the words that came out of his mouth. Harry knows this way too much, for he has seen it happen more often than not; that moment where Louis starts doubting himself, doubting his worth, doubting how deserving he is of Harry’s love.

He gets up, standing on his knees beside him and looks at him, gently, as if not to scare him awa

« Is it over? »

« No, » Louis says, and his eyes don’t quite meet Harry’s.

« Then why did you stop? » he whispers, laying his head on his shoulder.

« _Nay,_ » he continues instead of answering Harry’s questions, « _Weights and measures do us both a wrong. For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine’._ » Harry lets his lips wander at the base of Louis’ neck, leaving light kisses over his tan skin. « _With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done, for one is both and both are one in love._ » He pretends to ignore the slight waver in Louis’ voice. « _Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine’. Both have the strength and both the length thereof, both of us, of the love which makes us one._ »

« I love you, » he says once Louis finishes.

« I love you, » Louis replies. And the thing is, he means it, Harry can see it well enough in his eyes. He loves him as much as _he_ loves Louis. But that isn’t the issue.

« I love you, » he says again, his voice more firm.

« I know, » Louis blinks.

« I love you, » he repeats.

« You love me. »

« Ask me why, » he says, and sees, right then, clear as day, the veil come in and cover Louis’ eyes.

« Harry… »

« Ask me why? »

« Why? » he gives in under Harry’s gaze.

« _Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?_ » Harry says, and grins at the flash of recognition that passes through Louis’ veiled eyes. « _Thou art more lovely and more temperate._ »

« _Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,_ » Louis continues, a tiny smile forming at the corner of his lips.

« _And summer’s lease hath all too short a date_ , » they finish together before falling into silence.

Harry looks into Louis’ eyes until he finds what he is looking for, hidden under the self-doubt and the fears, and brings his hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles softly.

« Beautiful as summertime may be, it doesn’t do you justice, » he whispers, his lips brushing against the inked ‘28’. « Nothing could ever do you justice. »

« Why? » Louis asks, giving in to Harry’s will, although his voice is far weaker than it has been mere seconds ago.

« Because this world wasn’t made for someone as beautiful as you. Because history saw its share of nymphs and veelas and men and women with such beauty that battles were fought over them, and yet no one even comes close to you. »

« Harry… »

« You’re the most beautiful thing I know. »

« Harry. »

« No. Let me. »

He lets go of Louis’ hand to put a finger over his lips, silencing him. He gets up from where he is sitting, straddling Louis’ lap instead, welcoming the warmth that takes over his body as Louis’ hands find their place on his lower back, like they have always belonged there. Maybe they have.

He presses his lips against his, gently, slow and soft. Almost comfortingly, in ways that words could never be. He feels Louis’ hand push behind his back until he pulls him closer, so close he can feel his heartbeat next to his, their two hearts beating as one and for one. He tries to pour into that one kiss all the words Louis can’t hear, the words he refuses to believe, all the beauty he sees in him and the wonder he feels next to him. Even as their lips part, gasping for air, they both refuse to let go, and Harry holds the other boy tighter than he would hold onto life, for Louis had been, from the moment he met him, dearer than his own life.

« I love you, » he whispers against his shoulder.

Louis kisses the top of his head in response.

They fall asleep on that couch, entangled and refusing to move away from each other. And yet, when Harry wakes up the next morning, it is in his own bed, with the covers pulled over his shoulders and the curtains drawn to stop the light from awakening him. The spot next to him is cold, and he rolls over and buries his face in Louis’ pillow, wondering how much longer he’ll keep falling in love with him over and over again.


End file.
